‘He has some unpleasant friends.’

‘Those fools with the shaven heads and the big boots? Straw men, all of them. They wouldn’t dare.’

‘Your grandson did steal those thirty coins.’

‘He’s lazy — a leech. His father died when he was three and his mother spoiled him, not that she ever had much. He grew up in the East after reunification — she found some man there, a spendthrift who tried to get money from Rudi. He was always strict with Franziska, so they never got more than the minimum to supplement their benefits. And before you ask, both our daughter and he are dead, in a car crash ten years ago.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mavros said, getting out of the car. Yerasimos held the door open for Hildegard. ‘Is there someone you can call to sit with you?’

‘We have many friends on Crete, but I prefer to be on my own now.’ The widow gave him a brief smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not what the police doctors would call suicidal. Knock on the door or call if you need anything.’ She kissed his cheek.

‘Thank you, Alex. You don’t know how much this means to me.’

Mavros watched her go, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on him. Then he remembered something and ran after her.

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Do you know a Tryfon Roufos?’

‘Horrible man!’ Hildegard exclaimed. ‘He’s been badgering Rudi for months about the silver collection. Only a few days ago, they had words on the telephone.’ She walked towards the apartment door, the staff bowing to her, their faces tear-stained.

Mikis appeared at his shoulder. ‘This is terrible. I can’t believe Mr Kersten killed himself.’

‘He didn’t. Let’s go and find the fuckers who made it look like he did.’

‘So, left or right?’ Mikis asked, as they went past the resort gate in the Jeep.

‘Left for Chania,’ Mavros replied. ‘Now that Maria Kondos is out of the clinic, what are your pals up to?’

‘Their jobs. Why? Do you need them again?’

‘Maybe later. I’ve found out some interesting things.’ He told the Cretan about Waggoner’s blackmailing of the Kerstens and Roufos’s attempts to buy his silver collection.

‘I always thought the Englishman was a piece of shit,’ Mikis said, accelerating past a tractor. ‘I’ve seen plenty of those guys at the battle celebrations and they’re friendly enough — even the Germans. But Waggoner always seemed to be on his own, as if even his former comrades didn’t like his smell.’

‘You know anything about the communists on Crete during the war?’ Mavros asked, wondering again about his father’s role.

‘Not much. There weren’t many of them to start with and those that stayed were pretty well boxed in by the resistance leaders and the British.’

‘Waggoner claimed he was betrayed by one of them.’

‘That cache of silver was to be shipped to Egypt. According to my grandfather, who was a shepherd in Selino, with contacts in the resistance, the Germans killed most of the andartes, as well as the monks at Ayios Athanasios, and grabbed the loot.’

‘That’s right. According to Waggoner, an EAM operative known as Kanellos tipped off the occupiers.’

‘No, that’s rubbish,’ the driver said, slowing as they reached the city limits. ‘The informer was one of Waggoner’s own Cretans. He killed the man himself after he came back from Egypt. My grandfather knew the guy — he’d been tortured by the Germans and his family had been threatened. Standard occupiers’ tactics.’

Mavros blinked away the sudden film of tears that had covered his eyes. So his father hadn’t been a rat. He’d never really believed he was, but the confirmation made him feel much better. It also showed that David Waggoner had lied in his memoir. Was he embarrassed about shooting one of his own men — his admission to such an act earlier made that unlikely — or by his lack of judgement in trusting the man?

‘Shit, I’ve just remembered something.’ Mikis pulled to the side without warning, provoking a blast on the horn from the driver behind, and took out his phone. ‘Hey, Dad,’ he said, after speed-dialling. He ran through the story and then asked where the traitor had come from. ‘OK, thanks, see you later,’ he signed off, turning to Mavros. ‘Thought as much. The traitor was from Kornaria.’

‘What a surprise,’ Mavros said, with a wry smile.

‘Yeah. Achilleas Kondoyannis was his name.’

‘Kondoyannis? What the hell?’

Mikis nodded. ‘The name the guy in the kafeneiongave us.’

‘A relative? People called Kondoyannis emigrating to the USA might easily have shortened their name to Kondos.’

‘Right,’ the Cretan said, smiling at the pun — ‘kondos’ was Greek for ‘short’. ‘Maria Kondos. You think that’s why she was up there? Some kind of payback for the disgrace some relative brought on the village?’

‘The village where, as we know, vendettas are a speciality. It certainly needs to be checked out. Let’s get back to the Heavenly Blue and talk to the less-than-talkative Maria.’

‘I thought she’d started speaking again.’

‘Not much.’

Mikis applied full lock and turned the Jeep back the way they’d come.

In the hotel, Mavros ran up to his room and booted up his laptop. A search for ‘Kondoyannis USA’ brought up numerous references, though not as many as ‘Kondos USA’. Cross-referencing them would be a long job. He was about to give up and go in search of Maria when a newspaper headline caught his eye — ‘Florida Mobster Kondoyannis Jailed’. Maybe the surname hadn’t been changed, after all. The article was dated January 17th 2003 and described the end of the trial of Michael ‘the Bat’ Kondoyannis, fifty-seven, boss of one of northern Florida’s ‘most vicious’ criminal organizations. Born in Tallahassee, ‘the Bat’, so named for his use of a metal alloy baseball bat to deal with his enemies, had risen to the top of a gang run by Greek immigrants, originally from the island of Crete. Initially, they had been involved in illegal gambling and robberies, but in the last twenty years had controlled a significant part of the drugs trade in the South. Scrolling down, Mavros found a photograph of the mobster, a bull-chested man with short black curly hair. His features, including heavy rings beneath the eyes, were certainly Greek. He had been convicted of heroin, marijuana and hashish trafficking, using shipping containers supposedly full of olive oil, and of two murders. It was suspected he had links with organized crime in Sicily and other parts of the Mediterranean. Then there was another photo, this time of ‘the Bat’ with his family before his arrest. Next to a short, plump woman stood a figure with long black hair — his daughter Maria. There was no doubt that she was Cara Parks’ assistant. Presumably she had changed her name when she went to Hollywood. That was one of several things he needed urgently to ask her.

Before he could get out of the door, his phone rang.

‘Alex, it’s Cara.’

‘Oh, hi. Is your assistant with you?’

‘That’s just it. I expected she’d be in my suite when I came back from the shoot — she stayed there to handle the backlog of fan mail — but she wasn’t. I still have a card to her suite, so I checked. She isn’t there. I’ve asked at reception and no one has seen her, even though she’s still in that wheelchair. Apparently the shift changed. They’re contacting the people who were on duty, but no news yet.’

‘Here we go again. Tell me, did you know that Maria’s father is a recently jailed Florida mobster of Cretan stock?’

‘What? You must be joking.’ The actress sounded genuinely surprised.

‘No, I’m not. The question is, was she involved in the family business?’

‘That’s ridiculous, Alex. She wouldn’t have time. .’

‘Really? Might only take a few phone calls a day to ensure the drugs were running into LA smoothly.’

There was a pause. ‘And that mountain village she was in grows dope, doesn’t it?’

‘Kornaria? Oh, yes, in a big way. And guess what — David Waggoner’s got a house up there. Are you sure you never saw them in conversation?’